“It won’t,” she cried eagerly. “Let me help. What can I do?” Her reaction was toward activity. If she could help to look after the man she might forget the awful thing she had by chance escaped doing. “Rummage through that drawer. Find clean shirts or rags. Tear one into strips,” Hugh told her. She flew to the drawer and began tossing out socks, woollen shirts, old gloves, a pipe, some “dog leg” tobacco, a pack of cards, a few ore samples, and a vest or two of fancy patterns. Near the bottom she found a cotton shirt. This she ripped up for bandages. McClintock brought water and washed the wound. His enemy permitted it, sulky as a sore bear. The wounded man winced when Hugh tried, as gently as possible, to locate the bullet. “Lay off o’ that,” he growled. “Doc Rogers’ll find the pill.” “Expect you’re right about that,” Hugh agreed. “He can follow the drift better than I can. Never worked on that level before myself. Doc will sure strike the ore when he digs for it.” Vicky passed the bandages to him as he needed them. He noticed once that the blood had washed from her face and left it colourless. “You’d better sit down,” he said gently. “I can manage alone.” “No,” she told him firmly. In spite of the soft pallor of the neck and throat there was a look of strength about her. He knew she would not faint. The spirit of the girl shone in her eyes. But afterwards, when Dutch had been ordered to lie down on the cot by the window, Hugh took charge of Vicky without consulting her. He arranged three chairs in such a way that they might serve for a bed, padded them with sacks, and doubled a blanket so that the girl could lie between its folds. An old coat belonging to Ralph Dodson did well enough for a pillow. In five minutes she was breathing softly and regularly, though she had told Hugh it would be impossible for her to sleep. The firelight playing on her cheek reflected a faint and delicate colour. When Vicky woke it was morning. A pale and wintry sunbeam stole through the window. The storm had passed. Hugh was cooking at the fireplace, his back to her. The desperado was sleeping noisily and restlessly. She rose, flushed with embarrassment, and arranged her wrinkled and disordered skirts. “Good mo’ning,” the young man called cheerfully without turning. “Good morning,” she answered shyly. For the first time since she had come into the house a queer surge of timidity swept her blood. The modesty of the girl was in arms. “Your shoes are on the hearth warming.” “Yes,” she murmured. He carried hot water in a basin to a summer kitchen adjoining the main cabin. “Towel hangin’ on the nail,” he told her when he returned a moment later. Vicky gave him a grateful look and passed into the back room. Ten minutes later she emerged flushed and radiant. The dark rebellious hair had been smoothed down. To Hugh the blue dress looked miraculously fresh and clean. “Come an’ get it,” he called, just as he would have done to another man.